Mark One

by John Hindmarsh

  He walked down the hallway until he reached the front living room. There were more bodies. Tom was just inside the door, dead, his shotgun beside him on the floor. This time it had been loaded, thought Mark. The body of a stranger was on the floor, halfway across the room. Tom had used his shotgun to blast the man to death. A dropped weapon was beside the stranger’s body.

  Reluctantly Mark raised his head. There were three bodies along the wall—Miss Victoria, Susie, and Robin. Each had been shot, execution style. The men—Boothby and this stranger—obviously had asked questions for which the ladies had no answers. Mark checked each victim carefully and could find no signs of life. His eyes flooded, he felt like shooting Boothby and the stranger again, simply to alleviate his anger. He walked back through the house. It was quiet, a hush wrapped it and insulated it from outside influence.

  ~~~

  Mark was halfway to the highway when two sheriff’s vehicles passed him, lights flashing and sirens wailing. They were followed by two black SUVs, also with lights flashing. Mark continued on away from Jekyll Yards. He wound the bike’s throttle up as he reached the highway. He had no interest in returning to the scene of so much death.

  <<<<<>>>>>

  Newsletter

  Subscribe to my newsletter if you would like updates, news, details of new releases, progress, etc. I estimate that I will send out four newsletters—say one every three months—in a year. Go to www.JohnHindmarsh.com to subscribe.

  Reviews

  Thank you for purchasing and reading Mark One. If you enjoyed the story, please add a review on Amazon, Goodreads, Kobo, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, or whichever other vendor you used to purchase the book.

  About John

  I have dreamed of writing since I was twelve years old. My first efforts were—in pencil, of course—space operas engendered by H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. Later, of course, I increased my reading list to encompass John Wyndham, Doc E. E. Smith, Robert Heinlein, Frank Herbert, Lee Childs—the list just goes on and on. Over the years I have experienced a left-right brain conflict, with the logical 'let's earn regular income' side winning regular arguments against the creative side. Now I am writing full time. My writing focus encompasses thrillers, science fiction and fantasy, sometimes mixed.

  I am seeking pre-publication and indeed, pre-edit, readers for my book projects. Interested? Email me – John@JohnHindmarsh.com

  The following pages contain an extract from the first draft of Mark Two, which follows on from Mark One. Both books can be read as standalone efforts. Undoubtedly, given the real world of writing, the final version of Mark Two will vary slightly from this draft.

  Watch for the release of Mark Two - subscribe to my newsletter for updates - go to www.JohnHindmarsh.com.

  MARK TWO

  A Thriller

  by John Hindmarsh

  Copyright 2013

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by

  Rexon Press, Inc

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are entirely fictitious, invented by the author for the purpose of the story. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  The Chairman sat back and sipped his coffee, enjoying the aroma wafting up from the cup. He studied his three companions as they chatted. The subjects of their conversations were inconsequential and would change back to Organization business once the steward completed clearing their luncheon dishes and left the dining room. The steward was dressed in navy shirt and shorts, an unofficial uniform for crew members on board Hammer. They were moored just off Peter Island on the edge of Sir Francis Drake Channel and the sea was very calm in the shelter of the island.

  Dr. Smith was the only woman attending the meeting. She was of sturdy build, in her fifties, with a very sharp intellect. Her qualification was medical. Mr. Brown, sitting next to her, was an older man, military in his bearing and looked to be extremely fit. Mr. Jones was younger, one of the new breed. He also had a military bearing and was in prime physical condition. Both men had their hair cut very short, military style. Their names were temporary aliases, adopted for the visit, for protection against inadvertent publicity.

  Everyone was dressed in tropical, summer clothes—hawaiian shirts, shorts, deck shoes—suitable attire for a long weekend onboard a luxury yacht. This was supposed to be a Caribbean break from the pressures of the mainland, after all. The Chairman smiled to himself.

  The steward checked if he required anything more.

  “No thank you, Frederick. Please see that we’re not interrupted for the next two hours.”

  “Yes, sir.” The steward quietly closed the door as he exited the dining room.

  The Chairman coughed. The three conversations halted, almost in mid-word. “I think we’ve reached any other business on the agenda,” he said.

  “Mark Midway,” said Jones. The other two nodded.

  “The colonel’s report—any comments?” asked the Chairman. He was in his sixties, and like his companions, very fit. His hair was grey, also cut short. He was suntanned.

  “If I may?” replied Brown. He was sitting furthest away, almost opposite from the Chairman.

  “Certainly,” said the Chairman. The two other attendees nodded their assent.

  “We need to consider a censure, formal and recorded. The colonel’s actions were foolhardy, to say the least. I cannot identify any benefit from the excision of records from FBI computers and files. His action revealed the existence of our organization, some of our abilities, and reach. It’s created an intensive, ongoing search within the FBI, to discover how the deletions were accomplished. They’ve increased their security. Major cost, zero gain, from our perspective.”

  “I agree,” said Jones. Dr. Smith nodded her agreement.

  “I agree, also,” the Chairman said. “Prepare a censure recommendation for my approval. Do we have other Midway material?” He looked at Jones.

  “Yes, indeed. We’ve a transcript of the latest operational meeting of the Russian Federal Security Service—the FSB—dated last Wednesday. The meeting addressed some concerns of their Spettsgruppa A chief. Apparently they lost two of their retired operatives—what they call shadows—last month. They were both located in Washington, DC.” He was interrupted by Dr. Smith.

  “Doesn’t DHS block these people?” she asked.

  “They try. The Russians are very good at the hiding service histories of their people,” said Jones. He paused to take a drink of water, rattling the ice in his glass.

  He continued. “One of their losses was Major Dmitry Yazov. You might recall, he was the leader of the Russian gang who kidnapped the FBI Director. Major Yazov was killed, we suspect by Midway, although Schmidt is on record for that. The other shadow, a captain, was also killed in the raid to rescue the FBI director. FSB approved a budget of one million rubles for a preliminary study, on how to find Midway and Dr. Weinek’s research papers.”

  “So now we have a Russian agency involved. Damn Boothby and his stupidity,” said Dr. Smith.

  “The Russians will need to spend a lot more than a million rubles,” said Jones. “That’s what, thirty thousand dollars?”

  The Chairman steepled his fingers and looked at the man sitting across from him. “What do you propose?”

  Brown shrugged. “Continue our search for Midway. When we find him, bring him into the Organization—one way or another—a hard play, rather than a soft one. Our people could utilize the LifeLong research material, as well. Weinek was probably the leading expert on genetic engineering, at least in the US. Additionally, we’ll have to monitor the Russians, both in Moscow and DC. Identify their other shadows and neutralize their potential to do damage. Alert DHS, if necessary.”

  “How’s progress on the Midway search?” asked the woman.

  Brown grimaced. “We’ve got nothing, so far. That young man ha
s a surprising ability to disappear. We have a reference image of his face, it was in the deleted FBI files. We’re accessing DHS passenger images and running facial recognition scans, in case he flies somewhere. We’re searching for his motorcycle using images from ALPR surveillance cameras—which assumes he hasn’t changed his license plate. You’d be surprised how many images are captured each day across the country. Nothing and nothing.”

  “Cell phone use? Has he contacted Schmidt or Special Agent Freewell?” the Chairman asked.

  “No, nothing there, either. What makes our task more difficult is Midway’s isolation—he has no known friends, no relatives, no typical habits—at least none that we’ve identified.”

  There was silence around the table, except for some pencil tapping, as the small group digested the problem of finding Midway.

  “It’s a pity you can’t add him to the OFAC Blacklist,” said Dr. Smith.

  ‘Schmidt would see that very quickly, and pull it,” replied Brown.

  The silence continued for another minute.

  “Continue your searches,” affirmed the Chairman. “Monitor genetic biotech organizations, in case Midway tries to market his material. Do the same for universities with well-established genetic research departments. They’re long shots, I know.”

  “Worthwhile trying,” said Brown. “Very well.”

  “What about property? Did Midway inherit the LifeLong complex?”

  “Title’s in the name of a Panama foundation,” said Brown. “We tried to trace ownership, but it’s a dead end. The attorney in Panama deals with an attorney in New York. They received coded instructions. They don’t have names or addresses. By the way, that’s the property we’re planning to acquire. It’s ideal for some of our activities.”

  “Funded from your budget, I trust?” asked the Chairman.

  Brown smiled. Budget allocations were an ongoing topic of discussion. “That’s the last item on the agenda,” he said.

  “Anything else? Anyone?” asked the Chairman.

  There were negative responses from the three.

  “Good. The weekend was well spent.” The Chairman checked his watch. “It’s just after two. Let’s go on deck and enjoy the remainder of the afternoon. Dr. Smith, I’ll arrange a crewman to take you to the BVI Yacht Club at 4 p.m. You can take a taxi from there to Beef Is. Plenty of time for your 7 p.m. departure.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Chairman looked at Brown. “Your flight’s tomorrow morning—what, 10 a.m?”

  Brown nodded.

  “And Jones, you’re on the 11 a.m. flight?” Most air traffic out of the British Virgin Is. was to San Juan and the Organization had a rule requiring its senior executives to take separate flights.

  Jones nodded.

  “In that case, you’ll both need to leave the Hammer at 7 a.m.”

  “We’ll meet in DC next month?” asked Dr Smith.

  “Indeed, yes,” affirmed the Chairman. The other two men nodded their agreement. “Let’s go up the flybridge. The awning will protect you from the full effect of the Caribbean sun. We can sit and enjoy views across to Peter Island behind us, and to Salt Island, and over to Tortola. The water is warm, so you can swim, snorkel, whatever you want to do, to relax”

  They left the dining room on the main deck and ascended the stairs to the flybridge, as the Chairman suggested. Hammer was a customized Princess 88 Motor Yacht, purchased by the Chairman from a relatively impoverished Russian oligarch resident in Cyprus. The Russian had been caught in the Cyprus banking crisis and needed access to immediate funds outside the scope of that jurisdiction. The price had been irresistible to the Chairman.

  ~~~

  The steward re-entered the now empty dining room to clean and tidy up after conclusion of the afternoon session. He gathered plates, cups, and glasses and piled them onto a tray. He also deftly removed a small video recording device and placed it in his pocket. He had placed the device on top of one of the cabinets, where it had a view of the entire room. He hoped the recording was clear—if so, he thought, he would find a ready market for the small memory card.

  The Hammer crew had assembled in the crew’s mess area and galley, on the lower deck aft of the engine room, enjoying an idle few minutes. The crew consisted of a navigator, two deckhands and the engineer, as well as the steward. The skipper rarely joined in crew mess discussions and was currently on the main deck. The steward loaded the dishwasher and switched it on. The low noise did not disturb the crew’s conversation.

  “Any idea where we’re heading next?” asked Pete, the only Australian onboard Hammer. He was a deckhand, but like all the crew, more than capable of carrying out any of the duties needed on Hammer, whether at the helm or in the engine room. As a teenager, he had skippered fishing trawlers off the east coast of Australia instead of attending school, although he eventually made up for that deficiency, and now was a qualified and experienced offshore Yachtmaster.

  Reb, an American and the only female crew member, was the navigator. She frowned at Pete’s question. Her fellow crew members were unsure whether her name was short for Rebecca or Rebel, and some other variations were occasionally suggested, although not to her face. She carried two knives, sheathed, on her belt, and was prepared to use them. “I think Ft Lauderdale, and possibly to Bermuda after that. Still waiting for the skipper to tell me.”

  The desultory discussion was interrupted by the skipper as he stood in the doorway to the mess. “Pete, you’re on transport duty. Take the doctor to the Yacht Club at 1600. Then tomorrow morning you’ll have two passengers—Jones and Brown—at 0700.”

  “Aye, Skip,” said Pete.

  The skipper continued, addressing the engineer. “Terrence, the starboard thruster sounded off, last time we used it. Plan on getting it checked when we’re in Ft Lauderdale.”

  The engineer nodded. “I thought it was off, too. Was going to mention it.”

  “Where’s Hans—Hans, the starboard winch, in the bows, is showing some rust, I noticed some discoloration on the deck. Tomorrow morning I want you to strip it down, replace anything worn and pack it with grease. Make sure it’s working properly and confirm with Terrence. That’s all, carry on.” He turned and departed.

  “Aye, Skip,” said Hans, the other deckhand. He also was Yachtmaster certified; however, he lacked Pete’s experience.

  “I’ll guide you,” said Terrence.

  Hans nodded his thanks.

  “There’s your answer—Ft Lauderdale, and we’ll probably depart day after tomorrow,” said Reb.

  ~~~

  The four senior members of the Organization sat under the canvas shade, enjoying the fresh warm Caribbean air, a welcome relief from the air-conditioned dining room. Behind them was Peter Island, an emerald jewel in an azure sea. Salt Island was further to the east, and then a string of smaller islands pointed to Virgin Gorda. It was a sailor’s paradise.

  It was quiet. It was relaxing. It felt, somehow, like the calm before the storm.

  ***

  Chapter One

  Mark paused for a few seconds before entering the bank and checked again that he had everything he needed. He walked through the heavy metal-framed doors and joined a customer service line. When he reached the teller’s window he handed across the cashier’s check he had received for sale of his motorcycle—he had decided it would be safer for him to use city transport instead of his bike.

  “Please swipe your debit or credit card and enter your pin,” directed the customer service agent.

  Mark did as instructed and the agent read the details on his screen.

  “Thank you, Mr Darrow. Which account do you wish to credit?”

  “My account ending in 6005,” said Mark.

  “Very good.” The agent completed the transaction and handed Mark the receipt stub. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks. That’s all, for today.”

  With an exchange of polite farewells, Mark turned and headed to exit
the bank through the same heavy-metal framed doors. His identity appeared to be unquestioned; he was using the third and last set of identity documents that his father had arranged. The bank had accepted his details some months before, when he first arrived in Boston. He still did not how Dr. Weinek had obtained two additional sets of identify documents, both apparently genuine—the driver’s license was matched to a record in the New Hampshire state’s records. At least that appeared to be the case. He had been stopped twice by Highway Patrols in the last month, once in New Hampshire and once in Vermont. Each time the patrolman had checked and validated both his license and motorcycle details. Each time the patrolman had waved him on, after confirming his details. He now realized he had to be cautious; he did not have another set of documents.

  Mark walked out of the bank through the same heavy metal doors, down the broad steps to the sidewalk. It was a busy Boston summer day, mid-afternoon. He had the remainder of the day to explore, and planned to visit Harvard University. As he stepped from the stone steps, a sudden and noisy altercation caught his attention. People were hurriedly moving away from the main participants, opening up a space on the sidewalk in front of him.

  A young woman, possibly eighteen or so, was struggling with a man, a panic-stricken expression on her face. She was trying to free herself from his grip, and screaming for help, shouting that she was being kidnapped. Her fear was almost palpable. The man was holding the girl with one hand and threatening her with an automatic handgun. He was apparently trying to urge the young woman to a vehicle, an old Ford sedan, illegally parked, some ten yards further away. As Mark froze in place, the man’s companion fired a shot at a third man, who was standing almost beside Mark. He thought this third man was possibly a friend or family member of the girl. The victim fell with a moan, collapsing almost onto Mark’s shoes. As the man fell he had dropped his weapon—a Glock, Mark noted—onto the sidewalk. Blood was quickly spreading out from the fallen body, discoloring the concrete. Pedestrians were rushing away, some screaming, as the alarm spread. The fallen man was unmoving, possibly dead. The Glock was very close. Tempting.